


I Can Play Games 'Cause I Know All the Masks

by anythingbutgrey



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, lots of gazing and other emotional nonsense, mid-season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11989791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrey/pseuds/anythingbutgrey
Summary: If she gets sick with fever, Lilah wants to know what delirium would bring her. Would Wesley come swooping in to save her? Would she shoot him and then weep over his imaginary corpse? Light Fred Burkle’s clothes on fire and cackle from the sidelines? Lilah has imagined worse. Lilah’sdoneworse.





	I Can Play Games 'Cause I Know All the Masks

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between Habeas Corpses and Calvary. Written in 2010, archiving here. Title from Ida Maria's Keep Me Warm.

In the sewer, Lilah turns from Wesley before he disappears from sight.

There is a long, choking moment when she wants to stop, to call him back, to follow him, to say—something. She doesn’t know what she could say: that she should be the one to walk away this time, that she fucking _hates_ today, that she hates him, that it hurts—there are a lot of options. Lilah dislikes them all. The wound in her side is spreading, and something else, something deeper, aches as well. She doesn’t know which of these wounds burns brighter, or even when one ends and the other begins.

All she knows is she feels steeped in it, soaked in it, drenched. A thin film of rage coats her nonetheless—anger at him for walking away, at her for caring about him walking away, at the blood pouring out of her and staining a well-ruined suit. She wants to throw something. She wants to scream, actually, but the echoing sound would announce her presence. Instead, she continues to hobble into the dark, teeth clenched.

For the next month the blood won’t stop. She doesn’t know how she survives all the dirt and grime that covers her, dragging with it the chance of infection. If she gets sick with fever, Lilah wants to know what delirium would bring her. Would Wesley come swooping in to save her? Would she shoot him and then weep over his imaginary corpse? Light Fred Burkle’s clothes on fire and cackle from the sidelines? Lilah has imagined worse. Lilah’s _done_ worse.

But she doesn’t get sick. She gets stuck, caught underground with the one suitcase she was able to tug away with her. She barely sleeps; every squeak of a far-off mouse marks the possibility of an oncoming attack. It makes rest difficult. She should get out of L.A. She doesn’t.

She does, however, work. Lilah has never been good with time off; she thinks all of her unused vacation days add up to about five months. A workaholic from birth, her mother used to say. She goes to the inter-dimensional black market and finds out about the Beast. She checks in with contacts every week or so, makes appropriate payments and threats – mostly payments; the wrath of Wolfram and Hart doesn’t mean much these days – in order to find out what is going on in the world above. She keeps track of the battles. She asks about Angel, but isn’t really asking about Angel.

This is how she learns the ever-brilliant souls at Angel Investigations have decided to bring Angelus back. Wesley’s idea, she knows. He’s the only one who would make that call. It rings of just the right mix of dangerous and purposeful; the sort of stupidly brilliant move that only Wesley would pull. It takes her a few days to fully grasp the reasoning behind it, but she spends enough time with her books to finally understand.

When she does go to Angelus, she doesn’t know if she wants Wesley to find her, but he does, and she runs and when she hears footfalls behind her she is all too aware of who it will be. When he catches up, she’s too weak to punch him, but strong enough to call him a son of a bitch, though she probably should have used a harsher word. It’s just hard seeing him. It feels like a punch in the gut, and takes far more air out of her than all this running has. He’s staring at her, and she has no room to turn away. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like it at all.

“Is that where the Beast –” he starts, staring at the blood on her clothes.

She winces. “I can’t make it stop,” she says. She can’t make it _stop._

“I could take a look at it,” he says, stepping toward her. Lilah turns away. She doesn’t look at him as he paces around her little space. She just tries to maintain her nonchalance. This is a survival tactic well taught at Wolfram and Hart. So, they do their too-familiar dance; she bites, he bites, and much to her dismay there’s no literal biting, but she goes back to the hotel with him and she has to smirk at it, the whole gaggle of them wandering and lost and not a single person looking the other in the eye for more than an instant. She likes that. She likes that a lot. What she doesn’t like is what everyone keeps talking about, her guilt, guilt they see because she escaped the Beast, and she escaped the Beast because of Wesley, and she doesn’t like the way everything these days keeps circling back to Wesley. His name tastes sour and sweet on her tongue, and she keeps _bleeding._

The limp upstairs to shower is too hard. Another string of curses against the Beast runs through her head; it’s the usual static. The water creaks on, and Lilah’s mouth waters. She gingerly tugs her shirt over her head, wincing with each motion. She moves to take off her pants when there’s a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she calls, standing close enough to the water to feel the faint spritzes of warm water against her shoulders.

“It’s me,” Wesley says. “I brought you a change of clothes.”

She looks down at her body, and at the dirtied t-shirt on the floor. Her half-naked body is nothing he hasn’t seen before, so she opens the door and smirks as his gaze automatically falls to her breasts.

“Thanks, Wes,” she says, and reaches out to take the clothes from his unmoving hands.

“I should really look at that,” he says, and she’s about to make some crack when she realizes his sight has fallen to the ever-gaping hole in her side. She feels, for the first time, _truly_ naked, and tries to turn away. He stops the door before she can shut it.

“Lilah,” he whispers, looking her in the eye, _really_ looking at her, for the first time all day. She shuts her eyes. She can’t. She can’t do this, this familiarity, this _intimacy_ and the word makes her feel sick. She can’t look at him or be near him or god forbid be _this close_ to him where she can smell the familiar scent of him and he can smell the sewage-filled scent of her. She takes a step back, but cannot close the door. He still has his hand pressed against it.

“What,” she hisses. “Your little friends would tell you how I’m being punished for my evil, evil ways if you asked. So why don’t you just go work on this apocalypse thing. I believe a nice Texan girl is waiting for you downstairs.”

Wesley looks away from her. She likes that. She can breathe a lot easier this way.

“Lilah,” he begins, with that slow apology in his voice that makes her want to scream. “There are things –”

“Save it, Wes,” she says. “I’m familiar with your reasoning. All stalwart and true, I’m sure.”

He looks back at her. She looks away.

“I’m going to get some bandages from downstairs,” he says, and his voice is low and distant and commanding and does not belong to _her_ Wesley. This is boss Wesley. Wesley owns a variety of costumes. Lilah actually likes them all, but she knows when one is being put out on display.

“Fine,” she mumbles, because there is no arguing with this Wesley, and slams the door shut when he steps away. She pulls off the rest of her clothes and steps into the shower, closing her eyes as the water pours over her. She sighs into it, the water splashing over her face. A murky mix of blood and dirt puddles around her ankles and then gets washed away. She stares at these remnants, and spends a moment trying to imagine her life now. Wesley would never force her out, but she also could never stay here. Too many white hats. Too much awkwardly placed sexual tension. Too much Wesley-staring-in-other-directions. That’s a scene she doesn’t need. All the same, Wesley wouldn’t let her just wander out into the cold. She’ll have to run off one night when he’s not looking. She’ll have to walk away.

“Lilah,” she hears Wesley call from beyond the shower’s patter. “I’m back.”

She turns and shuts off the water. Wesley pretends not to look at her as she meanders toward the towel rack. She would think he’d have learned by now that that he doesn’t do well with hiding things from her. Neither of them speaks as she pulls the pants on. She likes the feel of them, the soft fresh scents.

“Whose are these,” she asks.

“Cordelia’s,” he says. “We have some of her clothes here. I think they’re your size.”

She winces as she pulls the shirt on and Wesley starts to move toward her, and says, “Do you need –,” but she glares at him and he falls into silence.

“I don’t need help getting my _clothes_ on,” she says. “I’m not a child.”

“Never said you were,” he murmurs, gaze turning to the ground.

“And besides,” she says, “getting my clothes _on_ was never one of your strong suits.”

The punch falls flat. His eyes tick up to her and stare. For a moment, they are caught that way, cramped into the small space with their breathing the only sound. She doesn’t even try to scramble to say something to fill the void; she just breathes. It’s been a long time since she did that. There’s a part of her that wants to leave and a part of her that needs to stay and most of her is just caught up in the momentarily peaceful hum. Her hands feel so warm, like they have been resting near a fire. Her entire body feels that way, warm and encased, safe. Safe.

Wesley holds up the bandages. Lilah jolts awake, snaps back to the reality, to the hole in her side and inside her and the drama downstairs and the demon in the basement, to the ex-lover standing in front of her and leaning against the sink.

“Let’s patch you up,” he says.


End file.
